We had a deal

Finished watching Sanditon. If you haven’t seen it but intend to, stop reading now. If you don’t mind major spoilers, as in let me tell you how it ends, here goes: the heroine in tears, the hero all apologies, and the viewer aghast. I took a deep breath, then another, then mad-dashed online for information on season two. There is none. I mean there is info, and it says there is no season two. By which time you start doing the math (how many hours did I invest in this), and looking to contact Andrew Davies (oh, numerous viewers have already skewered him on Twitter), because WTF.

Mr. Davies, you have some explaining to do, and it better be good. You took upon yourself to write an Austen. A 21st century Austen, granted, but fiction of a certain genre. And certain genres come with certain expectations, and when you decide to trample on people’s expectations, they will have questions. Did you take a gamble, certain there would be a second season? If there was no such certainty, why not just make a miniseries satisfactory to all? A broad story arch is all fine and dandy, but you can’t end an Austen like you did. The arch is missing a whole lot of story. And a happy ending

And so, we are not happy with the ROI. Yes, investment. Genres are deals. Going into one, you know where you are headed. You expect to get there. That’s the deal. If you want to be surprised, you know to take another bus, one that takes you…where exactly, you don’t know. That’s the point. Poetry is the only exception, at least in my view. Poetry doesn’t have to be or do anything. No rules, expectations or limitations. If it’s a bus, it has wings instead of wheels, and there is no telling where it will take you. That’s the drill and the thrill.

Mr. Davies, you owe Charlotte a happy ending. You owe the viewers a happy ending. We are Charlotte, teary-eyed and disillusioned. You are Sidney, so very sorry it had to be this way. Now pull a Lady Susan Ex Machina, as I thought you would, to leave us with some hope of the bus turning around and getting us where we thought we’d go.

Reality killed the video star

So. MTV is thirty years old. I don't recall the momentous day it launched, but I do remember MTV landing upon European shores six years later on that/this very same date, August 1. No, I don't actually recall it being the first of August, only the occasion itself. What I do remember is Sting wailing "I want my MTV" as the first song blasted, Dire Straits' Money for Nothing, and how many clothes female artists wore back then.

So what the hell happened? Last time I checked, MTV was behaving like your average thirty-year-old: aging most ungracefully by desperately hanging on to their teens and hopelessly trying to prove they're still hip and happening. I did what your average sensible thirty something does and switched to VH1 Europe, an actual music channel.

What else is old? New. What else is new? Cave Chaos, sweetie darlings, to be launched on this most memorable of dates! Yes, in an hour or so, the weekly, hour-long, live talk radio show featuring several smexy segments airs for the very first time. Your anchors: EC's own Jaid Black and Lisa Marie Gray. The topics: if it relates to female sexuality, is strictly taboo, irreverent and politically incorrect, it's bound to come up at some point.

For your weekly dose of behind-the-scenes and between-the-sheets action, visit New Dissident Radio every Monday from 4 to 5 pm EST. Happy August, dearest denizens!

Living on the edge

You know when something has to be good? When the topic itself doesn't interest you one bit but the presentation is such a delight you wouldn't miss it for the world. What am I talking about? Top Gear, sweetie darlings, one of the few TV shows I try not to miss. No, seriously. It's a screwball sitcom and talk show. With va-va-voom. Brilliant! The BBC version. Accept no substitute.

I'm not enthusiastic about cars per se. It's a necessity, not a baby I nurse in the free hours I don't have anyway. I do love driving, though. One of my guilty pleasures. Coupled with all those miles spent in the skies regretting a carbon footprint the Titans would be proud of... Gu-hil-ty!

Can't help it, still love it, especially now that it's winter and I really get to drive that thing instead of just sitting there steering while taking calls, eating lunch and putting on some Gigantic Titanic Absolutely Out of This World Volume mascara. Of course I don't. I have children. But the things I've seen on the roads of this tiny speck of compressed stardust of ours... Talk about living dangerously.

It is an extreme sport going out, even for a walk, now that the Big Chill has descended upon us. Ice falling off roofs, the ever-present possibility of limbs akimbo on those slippery pavements, and people driving as if they hadn't noticed the road conditions have drastically changed. I don't care what kind of acronyms your car came equipped with, it will not drive itself and it will still act like a car. Okay? Okay.

I took a winter driving course, which is actually mandatory up here, rightly so, and highly recommendable. It clearly demonstrated in a safe environment how a car handles or rather doesn't in extreme weather conditions. There are tricks and there are secrets to keep going where you were headed if you suddenly lose traction. Still, you can't control everything, especially other drivers. 

Picture little ol' me in my nifty motor vehicle approaching an intersection when along glides a 4WD, and I do mean along glides a 4WD after cutting the corner going way too fast and losing traction. It's coming right at me in as graceful pirouettes as a monster of a car can manage. With no time to back up and nowhere to go because I don't know where it'll end up, hoping it's not on top of me, I watch the guy's hands first spin like crazy then freeze and squeeze because he doesn't know either and because he doesn't know what the hell he's doing. 

His car ends up spinning on its axis right before a collision that never comes with little ol' me staring at the shaken putz and the stunned fool staring right back at me before backing up and taking off as if we hadn't just been an inch of a Monster Jam all our own.

Picture little ol' me driving home, walking in, going straight for the good stuff and downing a shot with Hubby looking on then saying, "Happy to see you, hon." The feeling was, as they say, mutual. 

Killing time

Remember my last entry, about how there's nothing on television? Or I think there isn't? Therein lies the problem, I was informed. That it was snobbish and what not to say so. That there is in fact loads on and maybe I haven't been paying attention and how dare I snub reality television when millions love it to death? 

Hold up. I wasn't writing off anything, merely saying in a roundabout way I don't enjoy reality TV, and believe you me, I make a point of checking out everything. Want to catch that ever-elusive Zeitgeist? Take a close look at popular culture and there you have it.

I've killed a particle of my ability to enjoy TV and film by studying them in earnest, and as with most things you set out to deconstruct, they lose some of the magic and luster in the process. Only when and if you get past the analytical phase can you go back to enjoying something in antediluvian bliss. Almost. 

The more you consume any certain form of popular culture, or any art form for that matter, the harder it becomes to find something jaw-dropping to induce goose bumps and make you want to go tell it on the mountain. But when you do, you forget everything. You exist for that moment, in that moment, wish you could hold on to it indefinitely. It may have been something as far removed from your daily experience as they come, but it rang true. It felt real. You felt it. You felt.

Those moments I enjoy. I only haven't found them watching reality television. Doesn't life and livelihood feel enough as if you're on The Apprentice and Big Brother at the same time? It's sudden death in the boardroom and it's murder on the dance floor and aren't we all glad it's not us and what the hell was s/he thinking? Gimme my fifteen minutes? Ka-ching?

If that sounds elitist or finger-wagging, so be it. If I have time to kill, I opt for reading and writing; calling the amazing women in my life I'm proud to call my friends; loving Hubby; an enredo I can dance with our babies; kicking and punching until I'd need more than Firestarter to pick me up from that mat if I truly needed to kick butt. That's what's real to me.